


The Remembered

by White_Noise



Series: The Other Life of Quentin Holmes, Quartermaster [11]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Holmes Siblings mentioned, Q is a Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:36:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Noise/pseuds/White_Noise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q never knew his father, Sherlock could never forget and Mycroft just wants to keep the peace. A story of the Holmes brothers childhood. With added toy airplanes and a well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Remembered

**Author's Note:**

> Someone please help me. I can't stop writing these little Bondlock pieces. 
> 
> Oh well. This time I decided to go into the backstory of the Holmes brothers and why they are the way they are. I also finally decided that now was the time to attempt the biggest challenge in Sherlock fandom. Mummy Holmes. 
> 
> Also, I finally get to explain Q's name.
> 
> To my beta Cathryn, why do you keep letting me do this?

It was dark by the time Mycroft stepped out of the car and looked up at the windows of the manor house which he had once lived in. There were lights on, indicating that at least some of the household were still awake.

Behind him, the car door closed, the crunch of wheels on gravel leaving him with no disillusions that the car was going to disappear into the darkness once more.

Sighing, Mycroft reached up and adjusted his blazer before hefting his backpack on one shoulder. The young man, all of 16 years of age, slowly made his way to the front door. It opened, light spilling out into the darkness as a familiar face looked out at Mycroft’s own.

"Good Evening, Master Mycroft." A voice called as the door was opened wide, accepting the boy into the house. "I trust you had a pleasant journey."

"Hello Stanley." Mycroft greeted. "It was fine, thank you."

The man, Stanley, nodded happily and closed the door behind the teenager before turning and taking Mycroft’s bag from him.

"Your mother sends her apologies. She has been delayed in London and will see you in the morning." He said, placing the bag at the door.

Mycroft nodded in understanding even as the disappointment welled in the pit of his stomach. He had learnt early in his childhood that his mother was a busy woman and as much as she loved her boys, could not always spend the time she desired with them.

Still, it would have been nice to see her again. The last time he had seen her as something other than a photograph or a voice over the telephone had been almost a year ago, when she had seen him off as he had been bundled into the car and driven to his boarding school in Scotland to start the new school year.

He had seen his brothers more often than that. Speaking of which.

Mycroft glanced over at Stanley. The old man nodded upwards, glancing at the stairs in the main hallway.

"I believe your brothers are in Master Quentin's room. Master Sherlock was quiet insistent that he be allowed to put his brother to bed tonight. No doubt his current house arrest has led to his state of boredom."

Mycroft couldn't stop the sigh.

"House arrest?" he muttered to himself.  
   
Of course. It had been a punishment implemented firstly by their mother and later by the household staff as punishment whenever one of the Holmes boys did something stupid. Being locked in the old manor house for days on end may seem like a childs dream, but it quickly turned into a nightmare when you were a Holmes boy.

Mycroft had mostly escaped this punishment in his childhood, and the discipline of his school left him with little will to gain the punishment while at home. Sherlock, on the other hand, was a different story.

It seemed that almost every time Mycroft had called the house to talk to his brothers, Sherlock was being punished for some offense or another. That was normal. What wasn't normal, however, was the information from his last call home, when it had been divulged to him that Quentin had gained the punishment. How a five year old had managed it, Mycroft wasn't sure. Nor was he sure how Quentin had managed the alleged offense, getting into the manor’s fuse box and short circuiting the electricity.

But that wasn't important. What was however, was this current offense.

"What did he do this time?" Mycroft asked, glancing over at Stanley.

"I believe his actions in question, involved a piece of pure sodium and the village well."

Mycroft groaned.

"He blew up the well?" he couldn't help but ask, not quiet believing what he was hearing.

Stanley shrugged.

"I believe there was a certain amount of structural damage involved yes."

"I will go and have a word with him." Mycroft muttered, heading towards the stairs.

Stanley nodded and disappeared, leaving Mycroft to continue his journey up the stairs and towards the private rooms.

The hall was dark but Mycroft could hear a voice, coming from the room normally occupied by his youngest brother.

"And since 50% of all crashes are caused by the pilots, you should always take note of the appearance of your pilot before takeoff. If he looks fatigued or incompetent, you should rethink your trip. You do not want the aircraft doing this..."

There was a sharp crack. Mycroft pushed the door open.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, the two pieces of the broken model aircraft still in his hands as he looked up at the door with a guilty expression on his face. Next to him on the bed was a small lump hidden by a quilt. The lump shook softly.

"Sherlock." Mycroft growled as his 9 year old brother tried to hide the broken toy.

Sherlock’s expression changed to a frown, his blue eyes meeting Mycroft’s own in a challenge.

"Mycroft." he greeted coldly. The oldest Holmes brother was always ruining his fun.

Beside him on the bed, the lump moved, the quilt pushed out of the way to reveal wild dark curls.

"Mycwoft!" Quentin greeted, his recently missing tooth giving him an adorable lisp.  
   
Carefully, the 5 year old untangled himself from the blankets and launched off the edge of the bed. The teenager only just managing to get a grip on him before the little boy hit the ground.

Quentin didn't seem to notice this danger, wrapping his arms tightly around Mycroft’s neck and pressing his face into his brother’s shoulder.

"Mycwoft, make Sherly stop." he said as Mycroft managed to hook his arm under the boy’s legs.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" Mycroft asked as he stepped closer to the bed, sitting on the edge so he didn't have to handle all of Quentin's weight.

Sherlock grumbled, raising his feet to rest on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around his knees. He didn't look up at Mycroft, instead choosing to glare at the floor. The broken toy was now tucked under the blankets.

Mycroft growled, noting the dirty shoes now resting on Quentin's clean sheets.

"Sherlock." he warned.

"It was educational." Sherlock replied, as if this was adequate reason for frightening his brother. "I don't see why we should lie to him. That would just encourage him to become an idiot."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock, he's five." he said as the five year old in question grabbed the collar of his blazer and tugged hard. Mycroft looked down as Quentin pulled a face.

"Yes, Quentin?" he asked.

"I'ma no an idiot." the little boy stated, glaring over at Sherlock. The nine year old snorted as if this sentence was proof enough.

"That's enough Sherlock. Go to bed. We have to be up early to meet Mummy tomorrow." he ordered.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to argue but hesitated. Mycroft had never hesitated to tell Mummy when he acted up and Sherlock was already in trouble for the well incident. It would be best not to get on his brother’s bad side.

Huffing, Sherlock climbed off the bed and left the room, heading off to his own bed. Mycroft sighed and detangled himself from his brother’s grip. Quentin gave him a wide eyed look as Mycroft stood and walked around to the head of the bed, raising the blankets and tipping out the pieces of warped plastic.

"Come on then." he said, nodding toward the open covers, the broken plane carefully kicked under the bed.

Quentin dived under the blanket, turning around as Mycroft dropped the sheets so only his head was visible.

"You see, Quentin. That is why we don't listen to Sherlock." the teenager said.

Quentin nodded.

"He's a idiot."

"That is correct." Mycroft confirmed. "And one day, it's going to be up to us to clean up his messes."

Quentin nodded again. Mycroft smiled.

"Good night little brother." he said.

Quentin wiggled slightly, dislodging the blanket from his shoulders. He held both arms out. Mycroft reached forward, giving Quentin the desired hug before pulled away and standing up. He walked to the door, turning the lights off as he stepped into the hallway, the door closing softly behind him.

Making his way down the dark hallway and towards his room, Mycroft couldn't help but stop at another closed door, listening softly to the sounds within. Sherlock may be in his own room now but that was no guarantee that he would actually sleep.

Sighing, Mycroft chose to ignore the sounds and headed to his own room, a room he hadn't seen in almost a year. He opened the door, stepped inside and closed it behind him, leaving the hallway dark.

\------

The next morning, the three boys found themselves awake early, dressed with care and bundled into the back of the car.

All three were dressed in black suits. Sherlock was grumbling, pulling at his tie and trying to rub the gel out of his hair while Quentin was quiet, his head resting against the door of the car. There was a sober atmosphere, all three boys knowing where they were going.

Mummy had arrived earlier that morning, also dressed in black. She had lined her boys up, checking that they were properly dressed and scolding Sherlock when he complained that he couldn't breathe. Now she sat in the front seat, watching the world move around them and occasionally talking softly to the driver.

It was an hour of silence before they arrived, the car slowing and then finally stopping at the gate.

Mummy unfastened her seat belt and stepped out of the car, opening the back door as Mycroft unfastened Quentin, handing the little boy to her. Mummy held her young son close, watching as her two older boys also climbed out of the car.

Sherlock kicked at the ground while Mycroft went to the driver, accepting the pile of white lilies that Mummy had brought with her that morning.

Turning, he followed the rest of his family, Mummy leading her boys through the gates and into the grass. The family weaved through the stones, making their way across the grounds. Finally they stopped before three stones. Mummy sighed, lowing Quentin to the ground before turning and taking the flowers from Mycroft.

She separated the flowers, handing three to Mycroft, three to Sherlock and three to Quentin before tucking the rest in the crook of her arm. She took Quentin's hand before nodding to Mycroft.

The oldest Holmes brother turned to the first stone. He stopped, reading the carving.

_'Here Lies Sherrinford Holmes. Beloved Son. Rest in Peace.'_

Mycroft placed the lily on the ground before the stone.

"Hello older brother." he muttered, brushing his hands across the stone.

Sherrinford was the first Holmes child. He had been born almost exactly nine months after Mummy and Father married and had died two weeks later. No one was sure why. One night, he simply stopped breathing.

Sighing, Mycroft moved to the next stone, aware of Sherlock taking his place at Sherrinford's grave with his own flower.

Mycroft quickly read the next stone.

_'Enola Holmes. Beloved Daughter and Sister. Fly Little Angel.'_

Enola had been born only a year after Sherlock. Unlike Sherrinford, she hadn't survived her first day of life. Mummy had been devastated at the loss of her only daughter.

Placing the flower down, Mycroft moved to the last stone. This is the one which hurt the most.

"Hello Father." Mycroft said, placing his hand on the stone.

He looked at the inscription there.

_'Siger Holmes. Beloved Husband to Boudicea and Father to Mycroft, Sherlock & Quentin. A Good Man.'_

Fathers death had been a surprise. A heart attack only a year before.

At the time it had seemed like the British Government had collapsed, officials all appearing to try and cover the sudden loss of their college. Mummy had been devastated, burying herself in her work to avoid the pain. Mycroft had followed her example, throwing himself into school life to cover the sudden gap and Quentin, still a baby, had not understood what had happened. All he knew what that daddy wasn't there anymore.

But for Sherlock, the death had changed something in him. Siger had always encouraged Sherlock, helping him with his experiments and answering his questions. Sherlock had taken the death hard, going cold and destructive to everyone around him.

Siger's untimely death had shown Sherlock’s vulnerability. His need to be protected. More to the point, Mycroft needed to protect him.

Mycroft stepped back, allowing Sherlock to take his place in front of the stone. Sherlock’s shoulders were shaking, the boy breaking slightly as he dropped the flower on the grave. Mycroft reached forward, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock didn't fight. Instead, he relaxed in Mycroft’s grip, accepting the comfort from his big brother. Mummy and Quentin stepped closer, the two boys giving them room to place their own flowers down.

The four stood in silence for a while before Mummy turned, letting go of Quentin's hand as she covered her mouth. The little boy didn't seem to mind, instead moving towards his brothers. He reached out, taking a hold of Sherlock’s hand.

The three boys stayed there, watching their mother and remembering those they had lost.

\--------

The wind was cold, causing Q to pull his coat closer around his body. He shifted slightly, ignoring the bite of the metal against his lower back as he pushed his weight against the metal railings. The cold wind made him cringe. He screwed up his eyes, trying to ignore the strange feeling.

His glasses had been replaced with contacts today, causing James to almost have a heart attack when he had first spotted his partner at work that morning. It probably hadn't helped that, today Q had put away his fitted jumpers and replaced it with a fitted black suit.

Thankfully, James hadn't been too shocked to offer to drive Q here when he had asked. Admittedly he had made Q promise to call when he was finished before he would leave the Quartermaster alone. Q hadn't wanted to promise, not sure if he would be in a presentable state after this. Still, he said the words, accepted the offered kiss and watched James drive away, the spy throwing around his new Aston Martin like it was a toy instead of a very advanced car.

The Quartermaster sighed and settled back to wait. He didn't have to wait long.

Soon, a black taxi pulled up, the back door opening. Q watched as a tall figure climbed out.

The figure closed the door and pulled the collar of his jacket up around his scarf. He waited for the taxi to leave before glancing around, his eyes falling on Q. The figure stepped closer.

"Sherlock." Q said, nodding slightly.

Sherlock returned the nod.

"Quentin." he greeted.

The detective turned and rested his back against the fence. He had a slight dark shadow on the corner of his cheek, the results of a fading bruise. Q was not surprised. He had been in Baker Street when Sherlock had finally decided to return home and confess to faking his own death and well, let's just say, John Watson had a mean right hook when he was angry. Not to mention the good Doctor was currently refusing to give up Gladstone, despite how much Sherlock whined.

The brothers were silent. They had been through so much together, that there was really nothing left to say. So, instead, they waited.

After a few more minutes of silence, another car drove up the road. It was a black car, with government license plates. A figure climbed out. He looked over the top of the car at the two brothers before turning, walking around the car and to the other door. He opened it, holding his hand out to the passenger inside.

An old woman took the hand, allowing the man to help her climb out. She smiled at him before turning and reaching back into the car, pulling out a small pile of white lilies.

She turned, took the offered arm of the man and allowed him to lead her towards the waiting brothers.

Q stepped forward to greet them, ignoring how Sherlock held back.

"Mycroft." he nodded to his oldest brother. He turned to the woman. "Mummy."

"Hello, Quentin dear." Mummy said, her sharp eyes scanning her youngest son. After a few seconds she smiled, reaching up to pull the young man into a hug, careful not to crush the flowers.

Q enjoyed the hug for a few moments before breaking away. He stepped aside, already knowing what was going to happen next. Mummy stepped forward, looking her middle child up and down.

"Sherlock." she said, tutting under her breath. "You could have at least tried to make an effort."

She reached forward, pushing the collar of his jacket down. Sherlock at least had the decency to look chastised.

"Oh well. Come along, boys." she called as she turned to enter the gate. All three brothers turned to follow her. To pay their respects to those they had lost.

**Author's Note:**

> Another little bit of house keeping. 
> 
> The names Siger, Sherrinford and Enola all come from non-canon stories. Siger and Sherrinford were both created by William S. Baring-Gould in his biography of Sherlock Holmes. They were never recognized as true characters. Enola was created for the series 'The Enola Holmes Mysteries' by Nancy Springer. 
> 
> Boudicea was the name of the Viking Queen of Ancient Briton. I thought it was a good, powerful name for Mummy Holmes. 
> 
> Also, the reason why I gave Q the name Quentin should now be apparent. Quentin is Latin for 'fifth', hence Q was the fifth child of Siger and Boudicea Holmes.
> 
> ....It made more sense in my head.


End file.
